


Ghosts Must Go

by ficthepainaway



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Halloween, Haunted Houses, M/M, and leo de la iglesia demonstrates why you should never meet your heroes, i'm bringing my faves to america because that's a bad habit of mine fic-wise, parenting practice, roller rinks, running from your problems, trick-or-treating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-25 09:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12527896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficthepainaway/pseuds/ficthepainaway
Summary: "Yuuri," Victor murmurs, drawing out the first syllable. "I want to go trick-and-treating."Yuuri purses his lips. "Victor, you're too—"Too old, is what Yuuri wants to say, but he chokes it back.Oldis a shadow that hangs over Victor, completely exaggerated but completely inescapable.Oldis there in the mornings when Victor positions the bathroom mirrors to monitor the bald spot he does not have.Oldis there at practice when Victor sneaks in extra breaks, ostensibly to scrutinize Yuuri's skating, but really to get a few minutes with a wheat bag on his knee.Oldis there in the evenings when Victor asks Yuuri for a massage without any innuendo, without any chance that it might heat into foreplay—he's just sore, and Yuuri eases his pain without questions."It's trick-or-treating," Yuuri supplies weakly.Victor offers a close-lipped smile, fingers coming up to trace Yuuri's jawline from ear to chin. "See? I have so much to learn."—In which Victor puts retirement out of his mind.





	1. Chapter 1

_What's next for Victor Nikiforov?_ Some iteration of the same headline has appeared dozens of times during Victor's career. Once it implied new heights. What's next for Victor Nikiforov after winning the gold in Sochi? What's next for Victor Nikiforov after his menswear collaboration with Hermès? "What's next, what's next?" always said in a zestful whisper.

Now it has the ring of finality. What's next for Victor Nikiforov now that his body's reached its limit? What's next for Victor Nikiforov who's known nothing but skating his entire life? Taking a year off to coach Yuuri had been a choice, and it was easy back then to speak abstractly about retirement because it was still in his control. Now it's a sentence. Victor must retire after this season. But whenever someone poses the question directly to him—what's next for Victor Nikiforov?—his reply rarely looks more than 72 hours out. At some point, denial morphed into a stubborn commitment to spontaneity, as though acting young and carefree would keep him young and carefree.

"Did you celebrate Halloween when you lived in Detroit?" Victor asks. His eyes are on his phone and his index finger is on his chin, and if Yuuri was looking at Victor instead of at the book in his lap, he might be able to predict where this conversation was going.

"Sort of." Phichit's incredible likability won him a lot of party invitations, and Yuuri was his default plus one. Sometimes Phichit forced him into a costume before they left the apartment. "Why?"

"Let's do Halloween this year!" Victor says this with a relish that implies celebrating Halloween is something indulgent. Something out of scope, even with the humming nightlife of St. Petersburg always in reach.

"OK." Yuuri glances at him and smiles mildly before turning his attention back to his reading. (The book is about food intolerances and high performance diets, and it's by no means a gripping read. But Mila forced on him, and Yuuri doesn't want to give it back without at least skimming it.)

"In _America_ ," Victor adds. There it is.

Yuuri swivels around and opens his mouth to protest, but Victor doesn't let him get there. "Please, Yuuri?" He scoots closer, wincing a little as he puts all his weight on his bad knee. "I've never had a real Halloween. Isn't that so unfair, Yuuri?"

Yuuri hastily sets the book on the floor as Victor crowds his space. "N-no, I believe that puts you in the majority."

Like many reasonable things Yuuri says, Victor ignores it. "Yuuri," he murmurs, drawing out the first syllable. "I want to go trick-and-treating."

Yuuri purses his lips. "Victor, you're too—" _Too old_ , is what Yuuri wants to say, but he chokes it back. _Old_ is a shadow that hangs over Victor, completely exaggerated but completely inescapable. _Old_ is there in the mornings when Victor positions the bathroom mirrors to monitor the bald spot he does not have. _Old_ is there at practice when Victor sneaks in extra breaks, ostensibly to scrutinize Yuuri's skating, but really to get a few minutes with a wheat bag on his knee. _Old_ is there in the evenings when Victor asks Yuuri for a massage without any innuendo, without any chance that it might heat into foreplay—he's just sore, and Yuuri eases his pain without questions.

"It's trick- _or_ -treating," Yuuri supplies weakly.

Victor offers a close-lipped smile, fingers coming up to trace Yuuri's jawline from ear to chin. "See? I have so much to learn."

Yuuri guides Victor's hand away from his jaw and twines their fingers together, giving a little squeeze. "Victor, the NHK Trophy is just a week after Halloween," Yuuri says. It's Victor's first Grand Prix assignment this year. "Don't you want to be here, practicing?"

Victor considers this, brow furrowed. Yuuri holds his breath. After a moment in thought, Victor replies, "What do we always say, Yuuri?"

They talk over each other. Yuuri recites, "Talent is cheap, but hard work—"

"Rest is part of work too."

"—wins medals. _Victor_."

Victor's looking at him so earnestly—all soft and hopeful—and even if it's a facade, Yuuri's resolve is splintering under it. He closes his eyes and makes a final, feeble protest: "Can't we go somewhere closer?"

" _America_ ," Victor says firmly. Yuuri opens one eye, and Victor knows he's won. He smiles wide, kisses Yuuri's hand, kisses Yuuri's cheek, then slides off the couch and jogs in the direction of the bedroom. "I'll plan our costumes!"

— — —

What's next for Victor Nikiforov? Some light deception.

The Rostelecom Cup comes a few days after Yuuri and Victor's discussion about Halloween and a few days before they fly out to…somewhere. They'll book tickets on Tuesday, when it's cheapest. This is too long for Yuuri to manage a secret this size, and the cracks are starting to show.

He lives in active dread of Yakov finding out. _What's the worse that could happen?_  That's Victor's sunny refrain. _I'm your coach, Yuuri, you should worry about disappointing_ me _. I'll deal with Yakov when we get back._ Victor may not be afraid of Yakov's rage, but Yuuri is. He really, really is.

At least Yuuri's reputation for being jittery at competitions works in his favor for once. It makes bouncing his knees and staring at his phone while he waits for the ice to open for public practice thoroughly normal. Nothing to see here, just Katsuki Yuuri worrying about his short program.

"You're acting weird."

Yuuri jolts, turning his phone face-down on his knee. "Yuri," he breathes, free hand coming up to his chest to feel his pounding heart. "How long have you been standing there?"

The other Yuri crosses his arms. It throws off the balance of the tricolor stripes on his skating jacket, red mixing with blue, white folding beneath either arm. "What's your problem?"

Yuuri swallows. "Just nervous."

" _Lie_." Yuri bends at the middle to be eye level with Yuuri, who's seated. His hair shadows his face. "If you were nervous, you'd say you were fine. What's wrong with you?"

Yuuri leans around him just in time to see the gate door swing open. "Practice is on!" Yuuri says, and he rises to his feet and rushes past Yuri to get on the ice.

Yuuri clears his head long enough to land most of his practice jumps, a feat made more impressive given how Yuri's assessing gaze follows him much of the time. When he's off the ice again and removing his skates, Yuuri checks his phone and sees the text he was waiting for from Phichit.

 **Phichit**  
_Got a lead for you! Try Leo de la Iglesia. He's in Moscow too, right?_

 **Phichit**  
_I still wish you'd come to Detroit instead, but I know I'll see you at the Internationaux de France._

Phichit garnishes his message the same way he does most texts: a series of superfluous emojis. French flag, French flag, French flag, croissant, croissant, red wine, baguette, then six or seven skates and a single blushy smile.

Yuuri exhales. He can do that—talk to Leo. He's careful to put his back against a wall before sending his reply.

 **Yuuri**  
_Thanks Phichit. See you soon._

Leo's standing in front of a step and repeat, answering reporters' questions with a wide, unquestioning smile. His coach is there by his side—Yuuri can't recall her name. She once trained her skaters in the same Detroit rink as Celestino, but Yuuri was too intimidated to even go near her—it's the piercings and the half-shave. Looking back on it, her appearance is really the only threatening thing about her—she was nothing but nurturing to her students.

As Leo steps out from the studio lights and flashbulbs, Yuuri catches his eye and waves him over. They walk out of range of the crowd, turning the corner to a quiet corridor below a viewing platform.

"I got Phichit's messages," Leo says in opening. "He tells me you want to 'borrow some children on Halloween'?"

"Nothing weird," Yuuri hastens to point out, then winces. Now it's weird. Leo continues to smile politely, to his credit. "Uh…Victor wants to try trick-or-treating but he missed his age window, so I'm trying to piece something together here. That's all."

Leo waves a hand and laughs. "I already texted my sister, and she wasn't about to say no to free babysitting help. I have two little nieces in Denver who would love to go trick-or-treating with you."

Yuuri smiles, and some of the stress lifts. "Wonderful. Denver it is, then. Thank you, Leo." He gives Leo a little pat on the arm and hopes it's as thankful as intended. "And please keep this quiet. We're…sneaking away."

"Understood." Leo looks sympathetic. Maybe that's just his eyebrows. "Hey, when do you think you'll fly in? I'm going to give you my number."

They exchange information and Leo walks off with a wave and a "good luck!" Yuuri backs against the wall and shuts his eyes. Denver. He's never been to Denver. Deep down (very deep down, under a thick layer of anxiety), he feels a little spark of excitement at the prospect of planning a trip.

"I knew you were up to something."

Yuuri's eyes snap open and his hands fly up to cup his mouth, stifling a startled noise. That's Yuri Plisetsky growling at him, getting too close. He jabs a finger into Yuuri's chest and says, "Where are you going?"

Yuri was intimidating as a petite child punk. Now that he's tall enough to look Yuuri straight in the eye, it's worse. " _Where_?" he demands, louder now.

"Denver!" Yuuri blurts, then covers his mouth again. Again, secrets aren't his forté.

"When?"

"Next weekend."

"How long?"

"Through Halloween."

Yuri takes a step backward, sizing Yuuri up. Then he slides his phone out of his pocket and starts tapping something in, thumbs lightning fast.

"Don't tell Yakov," Yuuri pleads in a frantic whisper. "Please, you can't tell him." Yuri just keeps typing, and this prompts Yuuri to make a desperate and unsuccessful grab for his phone. "Yuri!"

Yuri dodges away and snaps, "Don't touch me!" All without looking up from his screen. He tosses his hair out of his eyes and adds, "I'm not telling him."

That's when they're joined by a third—Victor, who swings around the corner wearing a smile so wide you could fall into it. "Yuuri and Yurio!" he exclaims. "Are we hiding?"

If they had been hiding, Victor's carrying voice most certainly would have given them away. "No, we're—"

"I'm coming with you," Yuri declares, cutting him off. Yuuri and Victor straighten up in surprise. The younger skater pockets his phone, then looks back and forth between them. "You pay for my airfare, room, and any shared meals, and in exchange I won't tell Yakov that you're skipping the country right before a competition."

Suddenly stern, Victor has a counter-offer. "Airfare only."

Yuuri all but whines. Yakov will already hold him responsible for not keeping Victor in check. And now he's stealing his other top skater too? "Victor…"

Yuri raises an eyebrow. "Airfare and room."

A little louder, Yuuri says, "Guys…"

Victor beams. "Done!" He flings his arms out, dragging both men in by their necks and knocking their heads together. "Ahh, I can't wait to spend Halloween with my Yuuri and my Yurio." He plants loud kisses on both of their heads. Yuri twists violently out of his grip.

"I'm not spending it with _you_!" he snarls, then stomps off in the direction of the athletes' lobby.

Victor watches him go, brow furrowed. "Who, then?" Yuuri shrugs, jostling Victor's arm.

— — —

What's next for Victor Nikiforov? A quiet escape.

They sneak out in the middle of the night like criminals. Victor books a cab that picks everyone up and pulls into Pulkovo all before 4:00 a.m. Yuuri's looking over his shoulder the whole time, half-expecting to see Yakov tailing them in his old Lada Niva, red-faced with rage.

They board their plane, and before they've even left the gate, Victor flags down a flight attendant to order champagne.

Yuri grumbles. "It's 6 a.m." His usual aura of simmering resentment is barely dimmed by the very pink, very leopard print neck pillow he's sporting. Victor laughs, tinkling and bright.

"Ah, but it's 9 p.m. in Denver, Yuri." Yuri grunts in response and angles his body slightly away from them. Still smiling, Victor turns to Yuuri, who's wordlessly going through the motions of in-flight nap preparation. Eyemask ready. Neck pillow secure. Victor dutifully lifts his arms so Yuuri can cover their legs with a fleece blanket. "You're still worried," Victor points out. "Do you think Yakov's going to grab onto the landing gear and keep us from taking off?"

Victor says this like a joke, but Yuuri isn't ready to rule out that possibility. When he doesn't respond, Victor reaches over and pushes Yuuri's eyemask up, up, up until the elastic slackens and it falls off. " _Victor_."

"Thank you for doing this," Victor says. He looks at Yuuri with reverence, like he's the most selfless, remarkable, beautiful person in the world. To be fair, this is how Victor usually looks at Yuuri, but for once Yuuri feels like he might deserve it.

Yuuri puts the eyemask back on his forehead. "Pozhaluysta," he replies. _You're welcome._ Victor tips into Yuuri's space to give him a kiss. From the aisle seat, Yuri kicks Victor with his heel.

They have a long layover in Frankfurt—nearly twice as long as their first flight. Just after they've settle in for second breakfast in the airport, Victor's phone lights up with the inevitable call. He answers it on speaker, leaning over to get closer to the phone where it rests on the table. "Yakov! Good morning!"

"By gde?" _Where are you?_

They hadn't discussed what they would tell Yakov once he found out, but Victor defaults to his usual policy: cheerful honesty. "I'm very sorry I can't make practice today, Yakov. I'm out of the country," he explains. "Yuuri, Yurio and me are going to America for Halloween!"

Predictably, Yakov explodes. Victor rests his chin in one hand and uses the other hand to lower the volume on his phone. After his move to St. Petersburg, the first Russian words and phrases Yuuri learned were from exchanges between Yakov and his students. Before he mastered asking for directions or ordering food in Russian, Yuuri learned how to coach and how to scold. A lot of that scolding vocabulary comes back now.

"Losing nearly a week of practice right before the NHK Trophy? I've come to expect recklessness from you, Victor, but this is a new low. This is _arrogance_. You think those gold medals insulate you from failure? You couldn't be more wrong! The world is waiting to see you fall, and this will be what does it, Victor. Mark my words…"

A server approaches their table, hears the shouts over the phone, and spins on her heel to see to other customers. Yuri's taking a picture of something on the menu and texting it to someone. Victor's smiling placidly. Yakov's still yelling.

"…photos online and thinking we're fools, all of us! I'd say you're hurting no one but yourself, but you've got Yuri and Yuuri in tow, so this time you're endangering their performances as well. A poor student and a poorer coach, that's what you are! And Yuri's in Skate America in November, so what could he possibly gain by running off to America now?"

Yuri leans over the table and roars, "It's me who pays you, old man! I can go where I want!" Every person in the restaurant—patron and staff—turns to stare. Yuuri even spots a group of flight attendants in matching gray uniforms slow to look at them from the terminal. Yakov is silent for a beat, and Victor springs into the space he leaves with a closer.

"We'll bring you a souvenir, _ladno_? Bye-bye, Yakov!"

"Give Yuuri the phone," Yakov says gruffly. No one has to ask which Yuuri he means.

Victor clears his throat. "Sorry, Yakov, he's in the men's room. Bye now!"

Yuuri gets to the phone a split-second before Victor does. "It's fine," Yuuri says, moving Victor's hand out of the way. Victor folds in his index finger—extended to end the call—and gives Yuuri a questioning look. Yuuri goes for a casual tone when he repeats, "It's fine!"

Yuuri stands and takes the phone with him out to the terminal corridor. He switches it off speakerphone.

"Yuuri?"

"Hi. Yakov."

"Yuuri, what have we discussed?" Yuuri had braced for more shouting, but he gets something different. It's the same tone Mari uses when Yuuri sweeps dust under a rug at the onsen instead of into a dustpan. The same tone Minako uses when Yuuri opens his arabesque leg to the side instead of extending it straight behind him.

Yuuri glances over his shoulder to make sure Victor didn't tag along. He's still at the table, though he watches Yuuri very unsubtly over the top of his menu. Yuuri turns back toward the corridor and answers, "Helping Victor transition into retirement."

They thought it would be easy. Victor doesn't need an excuse—he's achieved every competitive skater's goal five times over—but excuses are abundantly available if he wants one. He needs knee surgery, for starters. And if he keeps pushing, that will probably turn into surgeries, plural. Yuuri thought that Yakov announcing his retirement from coaching would be the motivation Victor needed. It tied a neat little bow on the whole saga—Russia's most prolific coach retires alongside Russia's most legendary skater.

"And what are you doing instead?" Yakov prompts.

"Spending Halloween in America," Yuuri replies dully.

Yakov lets Yuuri mull that over. The meaningful silences are so much worse than the shouting, in Yuuri's opinion. "Tell me this is part of your plan, Yuuri Katsuki."

Yuuri raises a hand to his face, covering his eyes and blocking his view of all the people hurrying past the restaurant. Victor doesn't need an excuse to retire. What he needs is inspiration. He needs his second act to bring him as much joy as the first one did. While Yakov takes the direct approach—recommending ice shows, choreography, commentary coaching—Yuuri tries floating ideas in the hopes that one might seize his interest. Yuuri asks _what ever happened with that book deal_ , and _were you serious when you said you'd like to move back to Japan_ , and _have you ever thought about university_? (The last one made Victor squint and laugh.) Nothing ever sticks, so Yuuri's letting Victor take the wheel. So when Victor wants to encase Yurio's new motorbike in industrial shrink wrap, when Victor asks Yuuri to go out dancing well after midnight, when Victor comes home with his arms full of eggs and sugar and declares _we're learning to make macarons_ , Yuuri says yes. If it makes Victor happy, Yuuri says yes.

"Victor has always met me where I am. Now I'm doing the same for him."

Yakov sighs loud enough that Yuuri can hear it. "Where are you going, then?" he asks curtly.

"Uh, Denver."

Yakov sighs again. "Hm. Altitude sickness. When we went to Colorado Springs for Skate America in '99, we thought two days for everyone to adjust would be enough, and we were wrong. We knew better the next year. Lots of carbs, understand? Lots of water! Don't push too hard!" Yakov's building volume again. Yuuri holds the phone a little away from his ear. "I'd rather have you out of practice than in hospital!"

"I'll make sure—"

"And get the number for the Russian consulate on your phone right now! Victor was born USSR, and that's all the excuse some customs idiot needs to make his bad day into your bad day!"

"I will."

"And remember when an American smiles, it doesn't mean they like you or trust you! Their smiles mean nothing!"

"I remember, Yakov." Yuuri excuses himself before Yakov can get too deep into his particular brand of international travel advice. When he's back at their table, Victor's giving him concerned eyes.

"The server said breakfast was ending soon so I ordered a spread," Victor says as Yuuri hands back his phone.

Yuri corrects him: "He ordered one of everything on the menu. I've got dibs on the cocoa cereal. And the frittata!" He gives Yuuri a sharp look, daring him to take his frittata away.

"Everything OK?" Victor again, still with the concerned eyes.

Yuuri spreads his napkin on his lap. Smiles, nods. They're going to have a good trip.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's next for Victor Nikiforov? A haunted house.

Yuuri likes flying west. Practically, it guarantees far less lost time and a little less jetlag. But he's particularly fascinated with being suspended in nonstop daylight as the plane races the sun. He could sleep, but he doesn't. Victor meanwhile threads his arm through Yuuri's and dozes off instantly, head on his shoulder. And later, after a lengthy and unsuccessful attempt to nap on his tray table, Yurio drops his pillow in Victor's lap and curls up on his side.

They land in Denver in the late afternoon and take a cab to their downtown hotel. The airport is well removed from the city, and the first leg of the drive is pretty empty. One minute, Yuri's muttering, "Way to pick a destination, assholes. Is this going to be as boring as Lake Placid?" The next, he's getting his phone out to capture the glittering skyline as it rises on the horizon with the snowy mountains just beyond. His good mood lasts until they get to their hotel and check into their room. Room, singular.

"The agreement was two rooms!" Yuri barks. His voice echoes around the lobby's marble walls. "Two rooms!"

"The agreement," Yuuri reminds him evenly, bone tired and unable to match Yuri's intensity, "was that we'd pay for your room. We never said you'd get your own." Yuri stomps his foot.

"I don't want to be around when you pigs get up to…whatever you get up to. I overheard enough when I was in the room next to yours in Helsinki!"

Victor repeats that last point, sounding thoughtful. "The room next to ours?" He hands his credit card to the concierge (who is doing a remarkable job pretending she's hearing none of this conversation). "I don't remember that."

" _I_ remember," Yuri replies, looking haunted. Yuuri remembers too, though he doesn't confirm this. He and Victor were…not quiet following Worlds in Helsinki.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about us, Yurio," Victor assures him. The concierge returns his card and Victor slides it back into his wallet. "We're just a couple of tired old men." He winks at Yuuri over his shoulder, and Yuuri is immediately furious with himself. They reserved their rooms so last minute that most places were full, and in the end Yuuri had to choose between two rooms at a cheap hotel or one room at a boutique hotel. It's so rare these days that he and Victor spend alone time together without being accompanied by aches and pains from practice. Why would he prioritize plush robes and in-room dining over a private space where they could do beautiful, obscene things to each other?

The room they do have is beautiful, at least. Two beds with tall, padded headboards. Chairs flanking a granite-topped table. Windows with a view of the Rockies. And in the bathroom—

"…Bozhe moy." There's a scuffling noise, then Yuri's backpack comes shooting out of the bathroom with a force that implies it was thrown overhead. "I'm taking a shower!" he calls, then slams the door.

"What's in there?" Victor asks. He's collapsing the handle of his suitcase and nudging it into the corner, out of the way.

"Rainforest shower and a deep-soak tub." Yuuri sits on the edge of the bed. He wants so badly to stretch out on the duvet, but he needs a shower before his well-earned nap. If he lies down, he's a goner.

Victor hums appreciatively. He sheds his jacket, then rounds the corner of the bed to stand between Yuuri's knees. "You spoil us," he rumbles. Yuuri tips his chin up to smile at him. "Are we planning private activities that Yurio won't like?" Victor points at something behind him.

Yuuri twists and locks eyes with his reflection. There's a little desk tucked into a little alcove, and the back wall is an enormous mirror that reflects the full length of the bed. Idiot Yuuri. They could have had a five-day sex vacation.

He turns back to Victor. "May I tell you about our other services and amenities?"

Victor smirks. "Please do."

"Same-day laundry and dry cleaning service," Yuuri says, summoning his best sultry whisper. Victor plays along, gasping and twisting his fingers into Yuuri's shirt at his shoulders. "Fitness center with 24-hour access."

"Mmm, Yuuri, don't stop." The voice is right, but Victor's grin has turned wide and goofy.

Yuuri leans back on his hands. "Keurigs and flat-panel televisions in every room." Victor chuckles, then perks up.

"Ooh, do you think the Kardashians are on?" He's gone from between Yuuri's knees in an instant, searching for the remote.

Lake Placid really is boring—at least if you are barred from hiking, skiing, snowboarding, or any other activity that might injure you and keep you out of competition. When they were there for Skate America, they got a lot of TV time. And that's why Yuuri can say the following with relative confidence: "I think they have their own channel."

Victor's scrolling through the listings with determination. "I love that."

— — —

What's next for Victor Nikiforov? A haunted house.

Despite his earlier claim he would not be spending the trip with them, Yurio was the one who picked the activity for their first night abroad. Or, more accurately, he made a vague demand and left the rest up to Yuuri and Victor.

Mari once told Yuuri about visiting the Daiba School. It's a haunted house at Tokyo Decks that's sandwiched between an arcade and a takoyaki stand. The friends she'd accompanied to the mall didn't want to follow her inside, so Mari went on her own. She recalled having only a penlight to find the path, and she talked about the yūrei that stalked her through the narrow hallways. Sometimes it looked on silently. Most of the time it was charging at her full-speed, shrieking. Mari spoke about the experience with awe, with nostalgia—like being chased around by a terrifying, ratty-haired actress absolutely committed to her craft was _fun_.

Yuuri's skeptical. In fact, by the time they're leaving the hotel, Yuuri's wishing he'd come up with an excuse not to do this.

The haunted house is in an area of the city dominated by warehouses and truck garages and mostly-empty parking lots. Just when Yuuri's beginning to think their cab driver brought them to the wrong address, they turn a corner and see hundreds of people packed into a zig-zagging line.

They find their way through the parking lot to the fastpass line (and yes, there's still a line for the more expensive tickets). Actors in grisly horror makeup stalk the edges of the crowd, separated from the patrons by portable fencing. As one draws nearer to their place in line—shuffling and jerking like a possessed thing—Yuuri has to remind himself _actor, makeup, not real_. The actor's prosthetics make it look like metal is pushing up through his flesh, with galvanized pipes where his eyes and ears should be. And as he gets closer, the effect gets worse: thick veins stand out on his skin and oil drips black from every orifice. Yuuri doesn't notice himself shrinking away until he bumps against the fence behind him. _Actor, makeup, not real_.

Victor's holding his phone to his chest, wide-eyed, caught between two animal instincts: photo or flight. The actor pauses in front of them, cocking his head, and Victor's first instinct wins out. He swings around for a selfie, taking position with his arm extended. At Victor's encouragement, Yuri and Yuuri squish into the frame too. Yuuri tries to smile with his companions, but it surfaces as a kind of nervous grimace. The monster—actor, _actor_ —bares his blackened teeth. Victor's thumb taps the shutter button on screen.

Typing out a caption on his phone, Victor murmurs, "Hashtag aaaaaahhh." It comes out less like he's screaming and more like he's visiting the dentist.

Yuri contributes an eyeroll and a soft, "Tch."

" _You_ asked to come here," Yuuri reminds him tersely. Can't help it, because this always happens when Yuri gets what he wants—he suddenly pretends he's too good for it.

The line moves up, and the shrieks from the patrons inside get louder. Yuuri swallows. _Actors, makeup, not real_. He crosses his arms against the chill creeping up.

Yuri replies, "Only to watch you two get scared out of your minds." He looks at Yuuri sidelong and grins. "Why else would I want to do this cheesy shit?"

Yuuri takes a stabilizing breath. Of course. Of course Yurio's made them pay to be humiliated.

The line moves up again. And again. They're three groups away from the entrance. Then two. Then one. Yuuri can pick out more than just screams from inside the haunted house now. There are thumps and crashes and mechanical roars, and he wonders again how this is meant to be fun. He's reading the rules posted on the wall but not comprehending them; instead he's playing out different escape scenarios and estimating which one would lose the least amount of points with Yuri. Turning away before they go inside? Clamming up partway through and begging to be led back out to safety? Maybe Yuuri will have a heart attack and just die on the floor—that would teach him.

"Yuuri, are you—" Victor touches Yuuri's elbow and it startles him, has him whipping around to stare at Victor. "—hey, wow, do you maybe want to skip this?" And oh, excellent, Yuuri feels a deep blush take over his face.

"…No," he replies weakly.

"Yuuri." Reprimand woven with sympathy. "It's OK."

"We already paid 38 dollars per ticket." Yuuri exhales shakily. "That's more than…2,000 rubles…2,200…?"

"And I'd pay three times that for you to have a nice night." Victor smiles his patient smile. "Why don't we go to the place with the hotdogs made of snakes?"

The staffer at the entrance of the haunted house steps out and waves them in. Yuuri glances from her extended hand to Victor's searching eyes to Yuri's smug face. And it's that expression—the raised eyebrow, the lopsided smirk, the implied _I knew you'd back out, pig_ —that settles it. Yuuri will get his ₽2200 worth of screaming.

"We're doing this," he declares. Yuuri zips his coat all the way up like it might protect him and then stomps over the threshold. He's about to march into the next room too, but his dramatic entrance is cut short by another staffer herding them toward a backdrop for a commemorative photo.

When they're finally let inside, their journey begins in a dark hallway. It opens into a small bedroom that's terribly gray, decorated with shredded wallpaper and overturned furniture. The only points of light are a single lamp hanging in the corner and the glowing eyes of an emaciated creature that sits motionless on the bed.

Yuuri's had to remind himself that this is all a production enough times tonight that he can admire the artistry of it all, at least for a moment. The actor on the bed has long, long fingers, and her skin sags over the twisted bones that protrude from her chest. She must be wearing a mask, but Yuuri can't imagine how she can see through the opaque eyes or breathe through the mangled nose. Maybe she breathes and sees through her fang-filled mouth?

The room is tight and they have to pass by the foot of the bed to escape. He knows it's coming, of course, but that doesn't stop Yuuri from jumping violently when the creature comes to life and throws herself against the metal footboard with an unearthly shriek. They rush out of the room and into another hallway.

The monsters ( _actors_ ) come from everywhere. Yuuri knows well enough that some new horror lies in wait behind each tight corner and past each chest-high barrier, but he doesn't suspect the creatures that pop out from the walls, the ceiling, the floor. He doesn't realize how much can be achieved by turning a room pitch black or filling a space with sudden strobes. Victor—sweet, confident Victor—places himself at the front of the group as a protective gesture. He holds Yuuri's hand and shields him from the worst of the scares, at least for a while. But bit by bit, Victor falls back. And somewhere between the black-eyed actor wearing a horned skull over his face and the demon made up to look like she has long, gooey pincers, Yuuri gets pushed out to the front.

Yuuri doesn't want to lead this operation, but the way Victor holds him tight makes him feel a little braver. And the way Victor yelps and laughs into Yuuri's shoulder gets Yuuri laughing too—especially in the middle segment of the haunt, the part with the killer clowns. They're as scary as they are stupid, with their oversized clothing and their oversized sledgehammers.

"Stop pushing, Victor," Yuuri breathes as they edge through a corridor made to look like an alleyway. He knows there's something around the corner, and he's not in a hurry to get there.

"That's Yurio," Victor says. "Yurio, quit that."

Yuri hisses back at them with a mindless " _You_ quit!" Yuuri turns to look back at him and finds Yuri half-ducked behind Victor, green eyes peeking out warily over his shoulder.

Yuuri's about to say something about this change in demeanor, but then he sees movement from the corner of his eye. He turns to face ahead again and meets the wild eyes of a clown with blue pigtails and grinning silvery teeth. Yuuri shouts in alarm and backs them up a few steps, then a door bangs open to their right and another clown flies out with his gnarled hands outstretched. Yuri's yelling and shoving Victor and Yuuri violently forward, out of one terror trap and into the next.

By the time they're in the third and final attraction—themed as a literal haunted house, full of permanent residents who'd met their gruesome ends many decades before—Yurio drops all pretense and wedges himself between Victor and Yuuri for protection. He squeezes Yuuri so hard that his ribs hurt, and the way he lays his head on Yuuri's shoulder would be sweet if it weren't for the snarled promise to "honestly murder you if you tell anyone, _anyone_ about this." Victor still holds on to Yuuri as well, his nervous fingers tickling.

They creep along like this—a slow, awkward, six-legged thing—until they're passed by another group of patrons, who grumble at them for clogging up the hall. The upshot is that for a little while they can see and hear what lies in wait for them. Animatronic creature on the ceiling around the corner, check. Actor at the top of the stairs and an additional actor in the closet beneath the stairs, check. Then silence.

With the suspense gone, they loosen up a bit, and Yuuri's grateful for the opportunity to breathe without pain. They take a corner slowly. Nothing there—just an empty hallway. Fog curls through the faux boarded-up windows. Yuuri eyes the wainscoting along the wall for signs of another hidden door as they move gently forward. It's quiet. Just quiet enough that he can hear the soft intake of breath behind them, followed by the rush of an exhale moments before it brushes his neck.

Yuuri gets the briefest glimpse of the actor who snuck up behind them—she's wearing a bonnet and dress with high neckline, her face full of veins and eyes turned black. Victor and Yuuri's twin yelps of surprise are completely swallowed up by Yuri's bellow of, "Aaagh, ENOUGH! Dammit!" The young skater fists Yuuri's jacket with one hand and grabs Victor's wrist with the other and takes off at a sprint, dragging them both along behind him.

They dash through a dining room, another twisty hallway, a kitchen, then down a stairwell. Victor's laughing and laughing, just dodging animatronics as they bear down on him. Yuuri's shout-apologizing over his shoulder to the actors as they blow past, as well as to the customers who shriek at their sudden, aggressive approach. Two actors wearing workmen's overalls and made up to look like their skin is rotting away are brave enough to jump out at them, and it pays off. Yuri releases his hold on his companions and goes crashing over a wooden table. He's up off the floor so quickly he could convincingly claim he never fell, then he hotfoots away, not bothering to take his Victor or Yuuri with him this time. Yuuri can't say for sure, but he thinks he can see the undead workmen's shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Victor takes Yuuri's hand again, palms sweating. They jog the rest of the haunt at a respectable pace, squawking and giggling as they're scared forward through the rest of the building. They're chased right through the exit by a demon girl with white eyes and far too many teeth. Her stained blue dress billows behind her as she charges them.

They find Yuri just past the exit doors, hands on his knees. He's taking big gulps of cold air as he growls, "What kind of—bona fide weirdos—get dressed up—and hide in a warehouse—to scare the shit out of people?" He straightens up and sweeps his blond hair back off his face, holding it back with both palms. "What the hell kind of lifestyle is that?"

Breathless, all forced innocence, Victor replies, "You weren't scared, were you, Yurio? Not Russia's Ice Tiger." Yuri narrows his eyes at them, then turns on his heel to walk across the asphalt, several steps ahead of them. "Well, _I_ had fun." Victor drapes an arm around Yuuri and kisses his hair. "How are you?"

Yuri laughs light-headedly. His heart's still pounding wildly in his chest, and he's pretty sure that it has nothing to do with the altitude. He's about to reply when there's one last scare barreling out from behind a semi trailer near the exit—it's a clown brandishing a roaring chainsaw at Yuri. Yuri yelps and stumbles sideways.

"Fuck you, clown!" Yuri roars, an accusatory finger held in the air. "Fuck you, all right?" The actor slinks back behind the trailer, snickering.

Back at the hotel, they decide to take advantage of the 24-hour room service before turning in. Yuuri can barely stay awake while they wait for the food to arrive, can barely focus his mind enough to calculate how much he's slept in the past two days. (Not much, he knows that.) But after they eat and climb into bed, he's hit with a wholly unexpected, wholly unwelcome second wind. Wide awake, he nabs his phone from the bedside table and hides it under the covers before he checks the time. It's 1 a.m. in Denver; 11 a.m. in St. Petersburg.

 _Tell me this is part of your plan, Yuuri Katsuki._ Time has bent all around him after traveling more than 8,000 kilometers, and the conversation with Yakov simultaneously happened yesterday and today and 100 years ago. This is not part of his plan, because Yuuri doesn't have a plan. And he won't need one, because eventually Victor's next chapter will spring fully formed from his mind. All he needs is time and inspiration. And he's as likely to find that inspiration in Denver as he is to find it at the bottom of a cereal box.

Yuuri opens his browser to check the Skate Canada rankings—they had tried to tune in to the livestream before leaving for the haunted house with no luck. As the scores are loading on Yuuri's screen, Victor rolls over and ducks under the covers with him, face illuminated by the dim white light of the phone. He holds the blankets up over their heads with one hand and smiles at Yuuri, sleepy-eyed.

"Did I wake you?" Yuuri asks.

"No, no."

They speak in the quietest possible whispers. In the second bed, Yuri Plisetsky's soft, even breathing continues uninterrupted. "How is it so far?"

"It's wonderful. It's so…it's perfect, Yuuri." Victor scoots a little closer, and Yuuri changes the angle of his arm to stabilize the canopy of sheets and blankets above them. "I liked the haunted house. Did you hate it, though?"

"I didn't _hate_ it," Yuuri replies. He would rate his current feelings toward haunted houses somewhere around "strong aversion."

With a barely visible half-smile, Victor calls his bluff. "So you'd do it again?"

"…I didn't hate it," Yuuri repeats shiftily, and that makes Victor chuckle. "I'd go again if you were with me."

Victor's hand, the one that's not helping hold up the covers, comes to touch Yuuri's hair. He smooths strands out against the pillow. "You can say no to me sometimes," Victor tells him, soft. Guilty, maybe. Yuuri sighs. "I know I don't make it easy."

"I like saying yes to you," he says, and it's the truth. Victor hums a non-reply. "Hey, you know who hates haunted houses?"

"Hm?"

"Yurio."

A gurgling little laugh bursts from Victor before he can slap a hand over his own mouth to silence it. Yuuri raises himself on one elbow and pops his head out from under the covers to look over at Yuri's bed for any sign of movement. Nothing; they're in the clear. He slides back under the blankets and lifts his fingers to Victor's wrist.

"He was so scared," Victor breathes shakily.

" _Terrified_ ," Yuuri confirms. "I think he's limping after he crashed into that table, did you notice?" Victor nods rapidly, hand coming down to squeeze Yuuri's.

"He kept—on the way back, he kept jumping and looking over his shoulder when dry leaves would blow across the pavement." The mattress vibrates beneath them from suppressed laughter.

Yuuri tries to put on his mocking fake-Yurio voice, but it comes out squeaky. "'Why else would I do this cheesy…this cheesy shit?'"

Victor can't do much better, huffing as he is. "'F-F…Fuck you, clown!'" It's bound to be less funny when they're more rested. But for tonight, Yuuri dives face-first into his pillow to smother his laughter and Victor's feet do helpless little flutter kicks at the bottom of the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I've never been to Denver. But [here's Hotel Teatro](http://www.hotelteatro.com/), [here's their haunted house of choice](http://www.13thfloorhauntedhouse.com/), and this is "[the place with hotdogs made of snakes](http://www.bikerjimsdogs.com/)." The description of the Daiba Haunted School in Tokyo comes from [Margee Kerr](http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/culturebox/2015/10/haunted_house_attractions_in_japan_are_more_immersive_and_intimate_than.html).
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at [ficthepainaway](http://ficthepainaway.tumblr.com/).


End file.
